


Only Ever Kissed Before

by bucketmouse



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Baz just wants to feel wanted, Book 2: Wayward Son, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Identity Issues, Infidelity, Lamb wanted to fuck Baz ok, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Making Out, POV First Person, Touch-Starved, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22949245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketmouse/pseuds/bucketmouse
Summary: What if Baz made a point to clarify to Lamb that he really was JUST friends with Agatha and actually preferred men? And what if Baz's friends had respected the thumbs up signal and let him be? Ultimately, Baz can't be sure who is taking advantage of who, here. The warning stands though, never go to a second location with a vampire.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Lamb
Comments: 30
Kudos: 115





	Only Ever Kissed Before

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to Rainbow Rowell.

He leans in close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear, against my neck, and all I can think about is the memory of pain from that first bite that changed me. I'm expecting pain again, and it isn't until that pain doesn't come that I realize I've gone stiff as a stone statue. 

What comes instead is the gentle press of lips against my neck, the barest hint of teeth - not fangs, not biting, just caressing the skin. I suppose it says something about me that it's only in that moment that I realize Lamb has been flirting with me. 

Sure he had seemed relieved when I clarified that I spent my youth in love with Agatha's boyfriend so that's how I know her, but I thought that was because he mistakenly thought that meant I wasn't in love with a mage. Not that I suppose that is a mistake now, what with Simon's current situation. 

Oh, Crowley, Simon. 

"... Don't want it?" Lamb's low voice asks, warm, non judgmental. He's pulling away, a wry but understanding smile on his face. I could tell him 'no' right now and it wouldn't change anything. He wouldn't take offense, it wouldn't make a difference to whether or not he'd help me. I don't have to do this. In this I could offer no explanation and he wouldn't push me for one. 

"... I don't want to want it," I answer instead, and I swear my voice cracks with the honesty of it. 

I don't know what he makes of that answer. If he thinks I'm some repressed closet case along with being some half feral child. His hand is so gentle when it comes to touch the side of my face, and I swear he looks at me like he wants to save me. 

Like he sees me as someone, something, worth saving. 

Has Simon ever looked at me that way? 

I feel sick inside. Like I swallowed one of those stupid black birds whole and it's a heavy, dead lump in the pit of my stomach. I should feel that way. I should be thinking of Simon. He's my boyfriend, after all. Isn't he?

Isn't he?

Lamb's thumb caresses my bottom lip, and when he leans in again it's towards my mouth but ever so slowly, giving me ample time to put a stop to it, to say no, to pull away. Like how I kiss Simon, not wanting to push. Is Lamb barely holding back the desperation and need I feel when I'm in that space instead? Every barely there beat of his heart with a  _ please, please, please? _

I meet him halfway, my lips crashing against his, and he doesn't lock up or pull away. He welcomes it, with touch alone directing me slower, a soft hushing between each kiss and the next. Slower not because he doesn't want it, but because It's an act to be savored, not rushed through. Lamb kisses me like he  _ wants _ to kiss me, and I hate how badly I want more of this. One of his hands is still on my cheek, cupping my jaw. The other has migrated to my hair, carding through it, and that alone feels heavenly. When was the last time anyone just touched me just  _ to _ touch me? 

"... you really  _ are _ twenty, aren't you?" Lamb says, voice disbelieving even as he says it. If I could blush I would, but the rabbit wasn't enough to get me that full. 

"I told you I was," I reply, looking away from his eyes. I suppose it's obvious, with my fangs, with how I feed, with apparently now the way I kiss as well. 

"You did," he replies, and I don't know what I'm expecting next - he's been so careful with me, so understanding, maybe he'll tell me that I don't have to do this.

Instead, he sees right through me to the reassurance I actually need. 

"It's okay to want this," Lamb tells me, startling me into looking at him again, to meeting his eyes again. They’re blue, but not like Simon’s. They’re a distinct blue, the cerulean blue of the regency - made from copper and cobalt mixed together. "There's nothing about you that you should be ashamed of, Baz.  _ Nothing _ . Not what you are, not who you are, not who you want."

He doesn't even know  _ who _ I am, not really. I want to believe him, though. Crowley, I can feel the dampness starting at the corner of my eyes. Of all the bloody times to be brought to tears, now, really? He wouldn't be saying these things if he knew who I actually was, if he knew I was a  _ speaker _ , that my mother killed vampires, that I hunted them down just the same. I want to believe he would, though. Just once, just bloody once, I want to believe someone sees all of me and wants it. Knows he wants  _ me _ and isn't afraid or ashamed. 

He kisses each of my cheeks, gently, right where the tears are gathering. 

"Oh, Baz…" his voice is so very gentle, and I'm so damn relieved I told him my real name - or at least my real what everyone calls me. I couldn't stand for him to be calling me Chaz right now. Maybe that would be easier though, easier to pull away. Or to dive into it without thinking of all the reasons I shouldn't. 

Simon is in our hotel room with Penelope and the Normal. Simon is waiting for me to get back. 

Simon, Simon, Simon - 

Lamb kisses my mouth again next, slow, savoring it. Kissing like he's had over a hundred years to perfect it, and hasn't regretted a single one. 

I open my mouth to the kiss, to his tongue, and allow myself the blissful nothing of thought along with it. If my fangs slip, they won’t be able to hurt Lamb, not in any way that matters. His hands are gentle as they trace down my body, caressing my neck, my collarbone, down my chest. I feel his touch acutely through the thin material of my shirt. He half pushes, half simply directs me to lay back on the sofa, slots himself easily between my legs like it’s where he belongs and there’s no place he’d rather be. 

The only person I’ve ever really kissed before this is Simon - when he wants it, when we’ve almost died, he has the confidence of a wild creature to his kisses. It’s all primal, what feels good, chasing the pleasure with desperation like he’s scared he’ll lose it if he lets up the chase for even a moment. It’s how I feel, too, when we kiss. Like any minute it’s going to be gone. Lamb kisses with a different kind of confidence. A man’s confidence, and isn’t that just ironic given that anyone back home would say Simon’s the man and Lamb the beast. Every press of lips, every swipe of tongue, catch of teeth, it’s all deliberate and unafraid. 

He knows he’s exactly where he wants to be, and he trusts that I want to be here too, and - 

_ I do _ .

“You’re allowed to touch me, Baz,” his voice is a warm breath against my lips. I’m off my game entirely, if I ever had a game - I had been holding on to the sofa, to the leg of my trousers, to keep myself from reaching out to him. Because I’m afraid he’d push me away? Because I’m afraid he’d welcome it? It could be either. Both. Lamb has no such compunctions, palming over my chest, rubbing his thumbs over my nipples through my shirt in a way that makes me gasp. They’ve always been sensitive, too damn sensitive, and I can feel the way his lips form a smile against my mouth when I do. 

“I bet your voice is beautiful when you let yourself go,” Lamb murmurs, sitting back on his haunches, taking my wrists in his hands, running his fingers along the bones of them, bringing them to his shirt collar. “Let yourself go, dear Baz. Whatever it is you want, you’ll have it.”

My hands are trembling but I don’t fumble with the buttons of his shirt, even though they’re half the size of a five pence, jet black - I think they might actually be made of jet. 

Not that I have any room to judge, the buttons on my shirt are mother of pearl. 

His skin is flawless, and that’s easier - easier to separate between the freckled expanse of skin, moles dotting like stars in the sky when Simon’s shirts hike up when he stretches just right. Lamb has more color than I do, and, surprisingly, a thin silvery scar just under his ribs. It’s faint enough I don’t think anyone but another vampire would notice it, and I trace it with my fingers. How does he have a scar?

“It was from before,” Lamb murmurs, explaining. “Knife.”

Before. His life before unlife. ‘When there was only darkness, and fear’. I try to imagine then. Imagine Lamb back then. Vampires aren’t supernaturally beautiful, we look like how we look. Other than being pale, other than the fangs, how I look now is theoretically how I’d look even if I’d never been bitten. 

Humans have only gotten more beautiful through the ages, and Lamb is gorgeous even by modern standards. He must have been seen as divinity itself when he was alive. I’m not certain that’s wrong. 

I know I’m good looking. That’s not being conceited, it’s an objective fact. The things he’s lived through, the things he’s seen, though - and he’s looking at me like I’m something that deserves all of his attention, something to be cherished. 

“Please,” I whisper, touch feather-light as I brush my fingers against his abdomen, afraid it’s all going to turn into smoke and mirrors as soon as I blink. The magic of Las Vegas. “I just want to - to feel…”

Lamb doesn’t ask if I’m a virgin, but his expression softens in a way that makes me think he knows without asking. I just met him yesterday. I shouldn't be doing this with him. I should be doing this with Simon, the boy I’ve been in love with since I’ve been eleven. My boyfriend. 

My boyfriend, who doesn't even know if he really likes other boys. Who freezes up when I kiss him. Who might not even be mine anymore, if he ever was. It’s not his fault, none of that is his fault, I can’t-

“Baz, shh,” Lamb shrugs his shirt off, and he’s got more muscle than I expected under his clothing, the wiry corded kind that comes from use rather than gained for looks. He leans in to kiss me again. My mouth, my cheeks, over both my eyes, making wordless soothing sounds like he’s comforting a child afraid of the darkness. 

I take a page from Simon’s book, and I stop letting myself think. 

He opens my shirt, smooth as anything, letting it slide off my shoulders with a whisper of Egyptian cotton falling against the leather of the sofa. His lips find my neck again and this time I don’t tense. Not even when there’s more than the hint of teeth again, sucking bites against my skin as he plays with my nipples unobstructed this time. Rubbing them, pinching them, just pressing his palms against my chest like he’s learning it by touch alone. With his fingers along my ribs, sliding down my sides, his thumbs dip into my navel and farther down still. 

I keep exploring his chest as well, starting at the scar and moving outward, feeling the curves of his muscles, sliding back to feel the bumps of his spine, tracing them one at a time. I arch against him, all of me arches against him, and I can feel he’s just as excited about this as I am. He rocks his hips against mine in return, and it’s wonderful. If his lips aren’t on my mouth they’re on my neck, teeth encouraging every sound that escapes my mouth, every shuddering moan that rises in volume. 

Lamb acts like he could take all night. All day. Just exploring every inch of my body and encouraging me to do the same in return, but even when I’m not thinking of all the reasons we don’t have that kind of time I can’t wait that long. I’ve waited so long already to be touched like this. I’d just rut against him until I came if he’d let me, but he doesn’t. 

“These pants are Fendi, let’s not ruin them,” Lamb says, and even overwhelmed with his touch I can’t hold back a sharply raised eyebrow, a pointed look down at his crotch-

Lamb laughs, easy, good-natured. 

“ _ Trousers _ ,” Lamb corrects, and again he leans in to kiss me, I’m memorizing the feel of his mouth smiling against mine. “... The  _ pants _ are Versace.”

“Peacock,” I accuse, like I have any room to talk. He smiles like he knows that. 

His hands are deft as he slips the belt off, gets the trousers open. I lift my hips to make it easier not that he needs it, he could lift me on his own just fine. With every layer of clothing he takes off of me, he encourages me to remove his as well and helps me along when I get too worked up, too nervous. He keeps us on as even ground as he can through it all, showing me where he likes to be touched, the ticklish spot on his sides right above his hips, how he likes his cock grasped - 

Crowley, his  _ cock _ . I haven’t exactly seen many, the benefits and drawbacks of Simon and I having our own  _ en suite _ in school, and being too nervous to change with the rest of the football team. It’s nice, though. Thick. I’ve always known I was gay, but there is something deeply validating about holding a cock in my hand that isn’t mine and loving every second of it. His foreskin feels better than velvet against my palm, his breath hot and encouraging next to my ear as I toy with it, tug it down to stroke his cock properly, and his groan of my name feels better than any award for cleverness I ever got in the past. 

“How far do you want to take this, Baz?” Lamb murmurs the question, and I feel it deep inside of me. As deep as I want him to be. 

“... As far as you’ll take me,” I reply. 

He leans in to kiss me again, lightly on the cheek. Lovingly. That’s when he touches me too, takes my cock in his hand with a few firm, steady strokes. So much better than anything it felt like touching myself. Then he’s pulling away again, and there’s only time for one brief spike of fear that I’ve done something wrong before I find myself suddenly upside down - that is, lifted over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

“Lamb-?”

“Your first time should be on a bed, Baz, not a couch. Nice as a couch as it may be.”

I was right in that he’d guessed I was still a virgin, at least. The suite is a studio so the bed isn’t more than a few steps away. My bed back in my family’s home in England was bigger, but this one is pretty close. The mattress is the softest I’ve ever felt, sheets Egyptian cotton like my shirt. Here, with more room now, Lamb lays me down on the bed and makes himself comfortable between my spread legs again. The bedside table is within reach, and he fetches a glass bottle with a clear viscous liquid in it that sends a rush of excitement and nervousness alike to my gut. Pouring just a little onto his hand to start with, it slips between my legs next, below my cock, and - 

“I’ll take all of you, if you’ll have me,” Lamb promises, gentle, clever fingers teasing at my hole. That I’ve never done before, either, not even just to myself. I trust him, though - Crowley do I trust Lamb. I try to relax and he kisses me again. Lips, cheek, neck, his teeth graze at one of my nipples and I gasp, bucking against his hand. Little by little he eases a finger into me, and it isn’t bad at all. A little odd, but he’s so slow, so careful, then he’s curling his finger just so with perfect precision and I see sparks behind my eyes like I’m casting something powerful. It’s like a well practiced dance he leads me through, easing in one finger at a time, letting me acclimate then pressing against that spot inside of me until I’m ready to beg for more, then adding another. I feel like I’m floating on the bliss of it - back bowed, begging for more. His hands, his mouth, they’re everywhere. I can’t get enough of his skin, I want to touch him like he’s touching me, everywhere at the same time. All I can manage is to hold on to him, though - I dig my nails into his shoulders, loathe to let him go far enough away to reposition us. 

“Easiest this way for a first time, darling,” Lamb insists, which finally gets me to ease up enough for him to take me by the waist and turn me over onto my stomach, to pull my hips back and up. He covers me like a blanket, threading our fingers together and nipping gently at an ear. “Next time can be on your back if you want.”

Next time, he’s already planning on a next time. He’d give me a next time, and a time after that, and as many times as I wanted.  _ Anything _ he had said, and by all the stars in the sky I know he meant it with all he was. 

“Lamb,” I start, but I’ve got nothing to go with it. I want his fingers back inside me again, want more than his fingers inside of me. I feel empty and open, now that he’s prepared me for more. If I don’t get more I’m going to self-immolate for certain. “ _ Please. _ ”

“ _ Breathe _ ,” Lamb coaches softly in my ear, letting go of one of my hands but keeping the other firmly held with his, an anchor, a lifeline as he quickly slicks his own cock, takes himself in hand enough and then I can feel the head of it pressing against me. I suddenly remember how thick he is, wonder if he can even fit. Somehow, he eases into me, little by little. Those slow, too smooth movements that couldn’t be done by a human. Slow and steady, until I’m completely full of him, until he’s flush against my back and he’s sheathed entirely inside of me. It feels like I’ve never been this full before, not even when Simon poured his magic into me. My cock is leaking onto the sheets between my legs, embarrassingly so given that Lamb has barely touched it since he started fingering me. The world has narrowed to all the points where our bodies touch, where we’re connected. His cock inside of me, his chest against my back, his fingers threaded with mine as he presses my hands into the bed - both once again. He’s not even moving anymore, just holding still, letting me adjust to the feeling. How long would he stay like this if I asked, just stayed inside of me and let me feel full and desired? 

I’d need to stop before he did, probably, but I’m used to starving for a greater cause. 

He kisses the back of my neck, a wet press of lips. 

“You’re magnificent, Baz,” it’s barely there and maybe I’m fooling myself but I could swear even he sounds a bit strained from holding still. Maybe that infinite patience isn’t so infinite. I feel like preening under the compliment that wouldn’t even be worth noticing from almost anyone else. It matters when Lamb says it, matters what he thinks of me, that he doesn’t think less of me because of all my deficiencies. 

“Please,” I beg again, shameless for it, pressing back against him even though he’s as deep in me as he can be. It gets the message across, he starts moving, and somehow it gets even  _ better _ when he does. Lances of pleasure through my whole body, every nerve alight with it. My hair’s a mess, a dark curtain over half my face and I can feel the thin silken strands of Lamb’s brushing against my neck, my shoulders, as he pulls back halfway before pushing back into me. Slow but steady, hard and deep. I feel drunk off the ecstasy of it. More than drunk. Milkshakes and triple sec and I want to laugh and never stop. Lamb lets go of one of my hands to touch my chest, my stomach, trailing down-

“I’m going to come if you touch my cock,” I warn, voice strained. I don’t know if I’m asking him to do it or begging him not to. 

“Is that a promise?” Lamb asks, mirth in his voice but no viciousness to it. He takes hold of me then, pumping my cock in time with his thrusts, holding me as firm as he’s thrusting into me. “Come for me, Baz. Let me hear you.”

I’m certain a vampire can’t thrall another vampire, but with his warm voice in my ear, his hand on me, his cock inside of me - the sheets are positively  _ fucked _ , I spill all over them as Lamb keeps stroking me until I’ve got nothing more to give. I can’t control my voice, crying out, half certain I’m going to set the bedsheets on fire by accident. That’s how charged I feel. How set alight I feel. Then I’m full and floating, boneless, relaxed in a way no thorough wank has ever done for me before - Lamb is fucking me in earnest now, harder thrusts, biting the back of my neck like a predator with his next meal. 

I could get it up again like this, if he took his time. Fucked right through to a second orgasm. He doesn’t take his time, though, I feel him thrust hard enough into me to leave bruises and then he’s spilling in me, filling me in a wholly different way. 

It’s going to be hell to clean up without a  **_clean as a whistle_ ** , and I don’t have a single fuck to give about that. 

When Lamb pulls out of me I feel some of his come leak out as well, and without him propping me up I fall flat onto the bed, onto the wet spot. I must make a face, because he’s laughing, gripping my hips again and rolling me to the side so he can strip the top sheet from the bed without getting me off of it. I must have drowsed at some point during this because it feels like it goes straight from that to opening my eyes to see the lights have been turned out and a cover is pulled over me, Lamb laying in bed next to me. I need to go, before my thoughts catch up to me, before everything I’ve done wrong crashes over me like a wave. 

Lamb’s arm falls across my chest instead. 

“Just relax for a bit, Baz. You can spare an hour to rest.”

I breathe. My eyes feel heavy, along with the rest of my limbs. There’s an ache between my legs that threatens to become soreness later. 

“Just an hour,” I insist. 

“I’ll wake you,” Lamb promises. That will have to be enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I did take the title from Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch Me from RHPS, but to be fair this fic is basically just Baz's personal rendition of it.


End file.
